


keep on saying you'll be mine for awhile

by roachpatrol



Category: Motorcity
Genre: A/B/O, Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, First Time, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 22:20:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol
Summary: “Hey, hands off!” Mike snaps, and reaches for the Duke. The man just grins, dodging around to Chuck’s far side, one of his long, thin arms wrapping around Chuck’s shoulders. He smells good, weirdly enough. Some weird rich guy cologne, peppery and distracting.Enticing.





	keep on saying you'll be mine for awhile

Chuck wakes up hot. It’s the first thing he notices, the feeling of his hair sticking to his face, then his shirt sticking to his skin: he’s kicked all the blankets off during the night, or he’d probably be sticking to them too. And he smells _rank_. As tired as he still is--as weirdly achy as his gut feels, as _heavy_ as his bones are--he can’t just roll over and go back to sleep in this mess.

He almost collides with Mike, in the hall on the way to the bathroom.

“Whoah!” his best friend goes, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you’re up early!”

“Mmm,” Chuck contributes.

“You okay?”

“Mmhm,” Chuck goes again. He is way too... _whatever_ right now to deal with Mike being all awake and smiling at him and bouncing a little on his heels and wanting a conversation and smelling really good and stuff.

“Alright, then,” Mike says. “Great talk, buddy.” He gives Chuck a farewell pat on the back and continues on his way. Probably to run twenty laps around the hideout and save someone’s kitten.

Chuck shuffles the rest of the way into the bathroom and jerks off in the shower. Twice. Which is, okay, maybe a little unusual, but he’s sleepy and thinking about Mike and the first time helps settle down the weird cramping ache low in his guts and the second kind of... just happens, builds on the way he’s so _hot_ , prickling all over now, squirming just from the pressure and slide of the water on his skin. His brain’s still running slow but his body’s definitely on full alert, now, all systems go. He leans against the shower wall and struggles to catch his breath, combing his hands slowly through his hair, trying to think it all through.

He wants... well, Mike, like usual, but something else. More. The loose, liquid heat in his guts tightens up again, bit by bit, starts to ache again. One of Chuck’s hands drifts slowly back to his junk and he hisses, frustrated and shivery, and sets the shower water to cold. Finishes the rest of the shower _really_ quick.

“You didn’t go back to bed?” Mike asks, surprised, when Chuck wanders aimlessly up to the diner.

“Nah,” Chuck says. “I’m hungry.” But he goes and sits next to Mike, instead, on a stool at the bar. He’s not, really, his stomach feels like crap. But he steals Mike’s smoothie and Mike lets him, smiling indulgently. Beets and broccoli, yuck.

“Is there even any sugar in this?” Chuck asks, grimacing.

“Beets have sugar,” Mike says. “Jacob says, anyway.”

“Man, why do we even listen to that guy,” Chuck sighs, and finishes the cup. It _really_ doesn’t sit well, and he drops his head against Mike’s shoulder, breathing in leather and motor oil and whatever it is that makes his best friend _himself_ , crazy and sweet and reassuring.

“What’s up, lovebirds,” Texas says, striding onto the landing, and Mike goes tense under Chuck’s cheek, unhappy. Chuck sits up fast.

“Hey, big guy,” Mike says. “Man, everyone’s up early today. Is there a party I don’t know about?”

Texas is already behind the counter, raiding the fridge, and when he looks over his shoulder and sees Chuck he does kind of a ridiculous double take.

“Well, if Skinny’s not in bed till ‘noon, it _must_ be a party,” he says. “Hey pal, what’s the occasion?”

“Shut up, you guys, I don’t _always_ sleep in,” Chuck says. He holds Mike’s glass out. “Can you get me some soda water while you’re up, dude?”

“That stuff is so nasty,” Texas says, but he takes the glass.

“Says the guy who drinks compost,” Chuck shoots back.

“Says the guy who gets _TOTALLY RIPPED_ off compost _,”_ Texas returns, and gives the glass back with a whole lot of unnecessary flexing. The guy has muscles like cantaloupes fighting and it’s _deeply_ unfair.

“See? See?”

“Yeah, yeah, very nice,” Chuck says, a lot less sarcastically than he’d meant to. He tears his eyes away from all that proud, confident alpha muscle on display and swallows hard. Grimaces. He’s so _sensitive_ today... he’s been kind of distractible and easy to fluster, lately, but today’s some kind of bizarre outlier. His guts are a clenched, unhappy knot, aching in time with his too-fast heartbeat. He sips the soda water extra-slowly.

“You comin’ down with somethin’, pal?” Mike asks, touching his shoulder.

“That’s no good,” Texas frowns. “How’re you gonna eat cake at the party if you’re horkin’ your guts up?”

“There’s no party,” Chuck says. “And I’m fine! I just don’t feel all that... super great... maybe. Today. Lay off, both of you.”

“Psh,” Texas says, exaggeratedly looking away, like he couldn’t possibly care less about Chuck in his whole life, and probably wouldn’t even know who Chuck was if anyone asked, anyway.    

Mike just shrugs and rubs Chuck’s back, between his shoulders, which isn’t _laying off_ like at all but makes him smile. It feels good, even if he’s still... kind of a little too sensitive, and probably shouldn’t let Mike hang all over him when it affects him so much. It’s hard to remember what’s appropriate or not for best friends, sometimes.

“Well, I was planning on swinging by the Duke’s this morning,” Mike says. “Dropping off that custom order he had for us, y’know? If you’re not going back to bed, I wouldn’t mind having you along as backup.”

“Pass,” Texas says.

“I was asking Chuck,” Mike says.

“What? Hey, what am I, leftovers?” Texas demands.

“You just said _pass_ ,” Chuck points out.

Texas raises his chin and crosses his arms. “Texas can change his mind at any point about anything for any reason,” he drawls. “It’s the right of a big-time top dog like me, you wouldn’t understand.”

Chuck snorts. “Oh, yeah, totally, dude,” he says acidly. “Mikey, could you maybe break down the prerogatives of a _super_ cool alpha like Texas? In small words? Cuz I’m _just_ a poor little o _—”_

“ _Hey,_ hey,” Mike says, patting him firmly. “Guys, come on, can we not do this now? Texas, I already knew you didn’t want to come along, that’s why I wasn’t inviting you. Go do some pushups or something.”

“You can’t pawn a wild stallion like Texas off with _some_ pushups,” Texas protests. “He’s gonna do THE MOST pushups! Right now! Wha-cha!” One fist triumphantly raised, he jogs out of the diner landing about as loudly as he came in.

“That dude is somethin’ else,” Chuck grumbles. “Top dog _my butt_.”

Mike snickers. “C’mon, Chuckles, he grows on you.”

“Yeah, like fungus.”

Mike snickers again, and his hand’s still on Chuck’s back, warm and heavy. Chuck likes it probably a lot more than he should. Because the thing is, Mike’s as much of an alpha as Texas, or more so. Confident, proud, possessive: he would have _said_ something, _done_ something, before now, if he actually liked Chuck back as anything more than a friend. It’s not like Chuck’s any good at hiding his own feelings.

“So, you up for a ride?” Mike asks him, smiling. Fuck, he smells so good today.

“You’re on, man,” Chuck agrees.  

 

*

 

The Duke’s mansion is as ostentatious as ever, and his minions just as intimidating. Still, Chuck pushes himself out of Mutt to flank Mike as his best friend strolls fearlessly up the walkway, a case of custom parts tucked carelessly under his arm.

“And just _what_ do we have here?” the Duke asks, leaning on his cane. “Why, if it isn’t my _favorite_ two reprobates! Get in any interesting trouble lately, boys?”

“Watch it, Duke,” Mike says. “We’re here ‘cuz you asked us. We can leave if you don’t wanna be nice.”

“Nice? Oh, Chilton, I am _always_ nice,” the Duke says, hand to his heart. His grin shows a lot more teeth than Chuck’s comfortable with, and before Chuck can shake off his hesitation the man’s done some kind of stupid, flashy kick-flip off the top of his ridiculously expensive limo, landing between Mike and Chuck and forcing Chuck to stumble back.

“Some people just don’t _deserve_ it so much,” he says, and sniffs Chuck’s hair. Chuck freezes up, heart hammering, paralyzed with dread. Something _twists_ inside him, aching-sharp, then begins to heat up fast.

“Hey, hands off!” Mike snaps, and reaches for the Duke. The man just grins, dodging around to Chuck’s far side, one of his long, thin arms wrapping around Chuck’s shoulders. He smells good, weirdly enough. Some weird rich guy cologne, peppery and distracting.   _Enticing_.

“Touchy, touchy,” he drawls. “Make up your mind, Chilton, am I playing nice with you and your bestie or not, today? Cuz if you change your mind on _that_ , I’m sure I can figure out how to get... _rough_.”

That is. That is definitely a mouth against his neck. Scratch of facial hair against his skin, a hard, wet press of teeth, the heat of someone else’s breath: Chuck whines, too overwhelmed to deal with basically anything, and staggers back against the Duke’s chest when he’s pulled. He’s breathing way too fast, he knows, putting on an embarrassing display of paralyzed cowardice, but. Hands. On him, and teeth, and. The twisting aching tangle in his guts is unraveling into something warm and wet between his legs, _hungry_. Hungry all through him, all the way up to his neck.  

The Duke digs his teeth in a little more, one of his hands stroking soft, slow, down Chuck’s stomach, and Chuck... keens. Tilts his head back. Even as scared as he is, right now, even as confused and upset, that feels really... _really_ good. It feels exactly like what he’s wanted since he woke up.

“ _Let him_ _GO!”_ Mike snarls, actually _snarls,_ and his staff is in his hands now, growling just as low and ominous. The case of parts has been dropped to the dirt.

“But he doesn’t mind, does he?” the Duke says. “We’re just being _friendly_ , aren’t we? Chuck, baby, _aren’t_ we? Because I think _everyone_ here would just _hate_ to get unfriendly.”

“Ah,” Chuck blinks a few times, feeling slow and stupid and totally lost. “Um, I, ahahah, I don’t... Mikey, I don’t, um. There’s no... problem. Stand down, buddy.”

Mike doesn’t look convinced, like at _all_ , but there’s a lot of guns being leveled by the Duke’s minions and Chuck’s never gonna be so stupid he’ll just stand there while Mike digs himself deeper into trouble.

Mike grudgingly retracts his staff, and the Duke smirks against Chuck’s neck, drags his teeth up the jumping, sensitive line of a muscle, then gives his stomach a final little pat and turns him loose.

Chuck takes two clumsy, wobbling steps, and has to lean _hard_ against the nearest surface when the loose heat pulsing through him threatens to send his knees offline. It’s the Duke’s limo, all silky-finished gold and red, purring warm under his hands. God, the Duke has the nicest cars. They’re so big and so fancy you probably can’t even tell you’re driving, when you’re in one. The jealousy Chuck feels is familiar, but the intensity isn’t: a sudden, overwhelming longing for comfort and security, for strong hands pushing him down into somewhere soft and close and private.

The Duke and Mike have gone head to head, when Chuck manages to focus on them again. Mike’s puffed up and snappish, hands fisted, jaw set, on edge. The kind of short-sighted, aggressively _alpha_ mood that gets everyone around him into trouble because the dork doesn’t bother to look before he leaps, or to think before he shoots his mouth off. The Duke is just leaning on his cane, grinning from ear to ear. They’re talking about parts and payments and services rendered and Mike’s gonna screw everything up in a hot minute, Chuck knows he’s gonna. And they _need_ to stay on good terms with the Duke. It’s pretty much sheer luck that’s gotten them through the times they’ve been on _bad_ terms.

“Mike,” Chuck calls, and Mike’s gaze snaps over to him. He looks bad, he looks _wild_. “Would you _chill_ , bro? Nothing’s wrong!”

Mike grimaces, half-turns away and runs his hands through his hair before settling down.

“Okay,” he says, with obvious difficulty. “Okay, cool, Chuck, sure. We’re all just being _super cool_ here.”

“Glad to hear it,” the Duke says indulgently.

“ _Duke_ ,” Chuck says, and the Duke grins at him sidelong. Chuck shivers at that grin, at the pulse of heat it sends through him, the promise of those teeth, and forgets whatever else he was gonna say. He just stays leaning against the Duke’s limo, watching dazedly as the Duke finishes up negotiations, then twirls his jeweled staff around in his fingers and strides back to Chuck’s side.

“You wanna show me how these parts go together, Chuckie?” the Duke says, and his arm’s braced against the side of the limo, too, over Chuck’s shoulder. His mouth is really close and his smell is--is still really _good_ , sharp. It makes Chuck’s mouth water, whatever it is, it makes him _hungry._

“Uh,” Chuck says. “Ahaha, um, what?”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” the Duke says. His voice is low, inviting.

He’s rich. He’s rich and he’s powerful and he’s so much easier to get along with when he likes the Burners and his teeth are just, right there, and Chuck wants to feel them again, his skin’s _crawling_ with that want, his guts clenching with it, his junk going _please please PLEASE_.

“Okay,” Chuck says, before he can think about it. He can’t really think about it. He just _wants_.

“Excellent,” the Duke purrs, and opens the limo door. Chuck squawks, losing his balance, and his butt hits a soft, padded seat.

“Duke! Hey!” Mike shouts, but it’s from somewhere far away.

“Oh, don’t get your boxers in a bunch, Chilton,” the Duke drawls. “I’m only borrowing your boy toy for a little consultation. I’ll give him back! Eventually. When I’m _good_ and _done_ with him. _”_

“ _Chuck,”_ Mike says, “Chuck, hey, are you--what’s going on, are you okay, hey!”

“I’m okay,” Chuck says. He’s really... yeah, he’s fine, he wants to be here, one of the Duke’s knees shifting against his thigh, soft suede under his hands and gold everywhere, that hot peppery smell.  _Show me how these parts go together._

“Yeah, uh. Mikey, I’ll see you, uh, I’ll see you later, bro, it’s all good.”

“Oh, it’s gonna be _very_ good,” the Duke purrs, and closes the limo door. The engine of the enormous car throbs to life and it turns out Chuck _can_ tell they’re moving, but the ride’s so smooth he doesn’t even care. Just a luxurious purr all through the seat underneath him, rich and reassuring: he’s safe in here, armored, protected. God, it feels good.

The Duke kisses him, which isn’t a surprise but still manages to be a shock: Chuck opens his mouth for it, eagerly, amazed at how intense it feels, the scratch of the man’s beard and the softness of his lips, the warm slide of his tongue. Chuck buries his fingers in the Duke’s stupid cape, the weird fluffy fur on his shoulders, and pushes it off. They’re about the same size, when the Duke’s not wrapped in layers of ostentatious crap, but the Duke still manages to use his body a whole lot better than Chuck’s ever managed to work his own.

He gets his thighs set against Chuck’s, pinning him down on the long plush bench, clever hands stripping Chuck’s shirt off before Chuck can think to protest. The case of parts is knocked to the floor. Neither of them care.

“Aw, look at _you_ ,” the Duke coos, and Chuck can feel himself flushing because, actually, yeah, _look at him_ , what the heck is he doing here? He’s a skinny, trembling mess and the Duke surrounds himself with the best of the best, the most handsome employees, the fanciest machines.

“Shy,” the Duke says. “Isn’t that _precious,_ you’re _shy_. First heat, baby? I bet you don’t have the least little clue how _cute_ it makes you.”

“Heat,” Chuck repeats. “Oh. _Oh_.”

The Duke cackles, at that, throwing his head back. “You didn’t even _know!_ ” he exults. “You come into my junkyard smelling like _that_ , baby, singin’ out like a _siren_ for someone to show you some loving, and you didn’t _even know_. Ohh, that is too delicious.”

He leans down and digs his teeth back into Chuck’s neck, bites down _hard_. Chuck convulses, hips bucking, thighs sliding against the other man’s. Hands scrabbling for purchase: the Duke pins him down everywhere, and he cries out.

“Yeah, baby, sing it out nice ‘n loud,” the Duke purrs. “You’re mine today, lemme hear you.”

It’s not like Chuck could disobey, even if he wanted to: he whimpers when the Duke bites him again, whimpers even louder when the Duke sucks the bitten skin until it tingles, only to bite him _again_ , working the mark in deep. His hands drag over Chuck’s front, clever fingers pinching at Chuck’s nipples, rolling them under his thumbs until the sting fades and then pinching again. The hot stinging just feeds into the surging, rising ache of want inside Chuck, that builds in his guts, between his legs, crawls inch by molten inch up his spine. When the Duke grinds his thigh up between Chuck’s legs Chuck _screams_ , shocked by how good it feels, and the Duke cackles again. He sounds smug as hell, but Chuck can barely scrape enough of his brain together enough to care.

“What’s that, baby doll, you want a little more sugar?” the Duke asks.

“Yes,” Chuck says immediately. “Yeah, yes, more, plea-- _aah, aAH, PLEASE--”_

The Duke flicks open the catch of Chuck’s jeans, strips them off his hips as easy as if he did this all the time. He probably does. He’s probably got a fresh omega in his limo every morning, begging for him, and that thought should probably be gross, Chuck should probably _care_ , but he doesn’t. He’s just hungry, grateful for anything he’s given.

“There you go,” the Duke says, mocking-soft, soothing, as he runs his fingers up along the short hard length of Chuck’s dick and then down the wet, ravenous clench of Chuck’s slit, spreading Chuck’s slick back and forth. He teases in slow, steady circles, until Chuck’s whimpering with frustration, _struggling_ to push his hips up into the touch, then sinks one finger into Chuck all the way to the palm. Chuck screams again, full throated and shameless, because--

“ _Yes,"_ he lets the Duke know, “Yes, that, THAT, more, please, fuck!”

“I’m gonna, baby, don’t you fret. I got the cure for _all_ that ails ya. Just you sit tight.”

“ _More,_ ” Chuck insists, and screams again when the Duke gives him more, another finger right along the first, sliding in deep. The stretch hurts a little, even with how Chuck’s dripping for it, but it’s _good_. Chuck writhes up against the hands on him-- _in him_ , holy shit--and then grabs for the Duke’s red jacket, pulls at it impatiently.

“Hey, don’t mess with the threads,” the Duke says, and smacks his thigh reprovingly. Chuck glares at him, breathing hard, and tugs it again.

“I want,” he says, struggling for breath, for coherency, “If you’re--we’re--if-- _fuck!_ ”

“Take your time,” the Duke says. His fingers haven’t stopped moving, tracing circles inside him, rubbing steadily. Chuck lets his head roll back against the seat and writhes again, trying to take some kind of control back, trying not to just completely fucking lose his shit.

“Take your dumb crap off,” he gasps, in one desperate burst. “I want, I want-- _you_ , come on!”

“Ask nicely, Chuckie,” the Duke purrs.

“Fuck you! _Please!_ ”

“Oh, very well,” The Duke says. “This is going to get messy, anyway.” And with that he pulls his fingers out of Chuck’s slit and _sucks them off,_ holy shit, _holy SHIT._ Chuck gapes at him, stunned by how crazy hot that is, that the Duke is now rolling his tongue around his fingers, slow and savoring, like the taste of Chuck’s slick is some kind of rare delicacy instead of just sort of gross and smelly.

The Duke grins at him, savoring Chuck’s attention even more than his taste, then shrugs his jacket off, drops it to the side. Makes an even longer production of taking off his undershirt, and then Chuck runs out of patience and pulls loose that stupid sports band the guy wears like some ridiculous tiara, throws it away, grabs for the gold chain.

The Duke slaps his wrist. Chuck squeaks, flinches away, then thinks about letting the Duke fuck him while still wearing it, the ostentatious gold nameplate slapping against his stomach and even if it’s pure 24 carat, that’s still, just, no. Nothing could make that more hot than sad. Chuck grabs the chain again, faster this time, and pulls it off.

The Duke _growls_ , and pins Chuck down flat to the seat.

“You’re not cute enough to disrespect me like this, babe,” he says, his teeth very bright and close, his hands _hard_ on Chuck’s throat and stomach, thin fingers digging in where he’s sensitive. Chuck feels cold fear crawl down his spine and meet the boiling ache of heat surging up it, and shivers uncontrollably.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, sorry, please, I’m sorry!”

“How sorry?”

“Really like an extreme amount, just a whole lot, um, that sorry, incredibly!”

“You gonna make it up to me?”

Chuck licks his lips. “...yeah?” he hazards.

“Good,” the Duke says. “That’s what I like to hear, babe, ‘ _yeah’_. C’mere.”

He pulls Chuck to sit back up, and he’s, wow, okay, he’s flicked his belt open, is pulling his pants down. He’s all wire and bone, underneath the big flashy outfit, even thinner than Chuck. Lean muscle over a long frame, and Chuck thinks, for the first time about any alpha ever, _holy shit, I could take him_.

But he’s still an alpha, and his dick is... intimidating, twice the size of Chuck’s, with heavy balls instead of a slit underneath and a knot at the base of the shaft already starting to show. Chuck looks at it and licks his lips nervously. The Duke shifts his grip from Chuck’s throat, slides his long fingers up his jaw and into Chuck’s mouth and he’s still wearing his black spiked gloves, and that’s hot, that’s not stupid like the gold chain, Chuck’s got a horrible embarrassing thing for black leather and here it is, against his lips. He swallows around the fingers, tasting sweat and motor oil, and his slit throbs with need.

“You got any ideas on how to make me happy, baby doll?” the Duke asks, and strokes his dick. Strokes Chuck’s tongue with the other hand. Chuck nods, eagerly: he’s already drooling for it at both ends. It’s pretty fucking obvious what the Duke wants, what they both want, even though it makes his heart race with nervousness. What if he gets it wrong? What if he’s awful at it?

“Smart kid,” the Duke murmurs. “Well, go for it.” He pulls his fingers out of Chuck’s mouth and leans back, slouching against the plush suede backrest, legs spread. His dick is jutting up out of his pants all hard and long and _there_ , and Chuck leans down, cautiously, takes hold of it. Gives it a careful, testing lick, right at the head, where precome’s painted a long shining streak.

“Oh, _sweetheart,”_ the Duke laughs, “don’t tell me you’re a virgin!”

“‘Kay,” Chuck says distractedly, and licks again. The taste is strong and weird--musky, he supposes, this is probably what musky is--but it’s like getting a hit of that compelling, peppery smell right in his brainstem, makes his slit clench eagerly in on itself, makes his dick twitch. This is probably why the Duke sucked Chuck’s slick off his fingers, this feeling, this eager redoubling of desire.

Chuck licks his lips, working out relative dimensions, then takes the Duke’s dick in his mouth and sucks. The Duke makes an appreciative sing-song hum, running his hands through Chuck’s hair, and the taste is stronger, now, sharp, intense. Chuck drools on himself, when the Duke grabs a fistful of his hair and thrusts up, coughs and drools and grabs for the Duke’s thighs but _god,_ this all feels better than he’d ever expected, ever worried about. His brain’s spun down into something simple and single-purpose, something that only cares about taste and smell and texture. Something made for sex.

“That’s it, babycakes,” the Duke says roughly. “Yeah, you’re getting the hang of it now.” He thrusts up a little harder, hitting the back of Chuck’s throat, and Chuck swallows sharply, then again around the intrusion--then again and again, as the Duke goes “Oh wow, okay, so _that’s_ an unexpected bonus feature--” and sets up a fast hard rhythm, sliding in and out of Chuck’s throat until he’s dizzy with it, his teeth hitting against the Duke’s knot no matter how wide he stretches his jaw.

“Pull your lips around your teeth, sweetie, I don’t wanna chafe,” the Duke says, and Chuck tries, hanging on and swallowing over and over, aching with the stimulation, the weird scary _delicious_ pressure, until the Duke shoves in hard one more time, that taste peaking, spilling hot and wet down Chuck’s throat, pulse after pulse. Chuck swallows and chokes and shoves his own fingers into his slit and comes, like an override, like a hard reset.

The Duke keeps him there, somehow, for what feels like a long time, trembling with aftershocks and breathless with the weight of a dick in his throat, until Chuck gets enough of his shit together to really push back. Then the Duke ruffles his hair, lets out a huge sigh, and slumps back against the door of the limo. Chuck sits up fast and takes a clear, deep breath, then starts to cough. The taste stings at the back of his sinuses, uncomfortably overwhelming and he’s still ready for more, it’s kind of terrifying. It’s kind of _incredibly fucking hot_.  

“You’re a damn natural, kid,” the Duke says, sounding mildly indignant. “Where d’you get off, anyway, being good at just about everything? It’s disgusting.”

“What—? I’m not--hh--jeeze, fuck, I’m. Nnh.” Chuck shakes his head, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. Licks the back of his wrist, _fuck_ , that taste is good, he wants to just go rolling around in it, like an idiot. Suck the Duke off again, this time with a hand on his dick as well as stuffed up his slit.

Get the _Duke_ to go back to touching him down there.

The Duke gives him a glance over his red shades, like maybe he caught that thought somehow, and Chuck licks his lips again.

“Hey,” he says, trying to work out the sentence ahead of time. “Hey, can you... do I get to... ask... would you--if--please,  if you-- _fuck._  Fuck!”

“Slow down,” the Duke says. “This kinda stuff scrambles you boys up but good.”

“ _Nnh_ ,” Chuck whines, frustrated and more than a little embarrassed. Flops over backwards on the seat, spreads his thighs pointedly, until one leg’s off the seat entirely, braced on the floor, his open jeans pulled tight around his thighs. He gestures at his dripping-ready junk, like, _‘you figure it out, smart guy!’_ because. Fuck. If the Duke’s such a hotshot expert he should _know_ what to do from here on out, he should know what to do from here on out a lot better than Chuck does. _Tab A, Slot O._ Go for it.

The Duke grins at him and crawls forward, along the long, plush seat, and Chuck swallows hard. It’s just evopsyche bullshit that alphas are predators and omegas are prey: they’re both human, both omnivores, so, whatever, but... god, the way the Duke _moves._ The way he bares those shiny teeth, outsize alpha canines, and Chuck’s neck aches for another bite, for him to sink a claim right down into his bones.

“We’ve got a couple _options_ , now, babydoll,” the Duke says, stretching out, going down on his elbows. He kisses Chuck’s stomach, then lower, the pale hair that starts under his navel, and that should be really embarrassing-- _is_ really embarrassing--but also sets Chuck whimpering with a new flush of heat and need, hips trying to roll up. The Duke holds him down with one hand.

With his other, he gestures like a magician, and is suddenly holding a few small items in his palm.

“Pill, patch, or condoms?” he asks.

“Wha--?” Chuck manages.

The Duke clicks his tongue reprovingly, and Chuck feels like an idiot.

“Well, I suppose you weren’t to know _everything_ ,” he says. “Even a brilliant little treat like you. They _do_ keep you kiddies innocent up there in Deluxe, don’t they? No heat, no birth control...”

Birth control. Oh. _Oh_.

Chuck makes a garbled, deeply mortified series of sounds, and buries his face in his hands. _Birth control_. He could get--this is _heat,_ it’s for-- _reproduction--holy shit, HOLY SHIT_. He’s nauseous, terrified, betrayed by his own body in one more horrible way.

“Don’t,” he gasps, “I don’t, I don’t want--no, no _no no NO!_ ”

“Whoah, easy, sweetheart, easy,” the Duke says. He sorts through his handful of... stuff. “The patch’ll keep you clean and carefree your whole heat. Pill’s just for tonight, in case you got your eye on any _other_ big bucks out there--not that they could _compare,_ of course.

“And then condoms are a one-off deal for _me_ if _you_ don’t feel like fixing anything about yourself, but I will be _perfectly honest_ with you, Chuckie, I am not the biggest fan of the sensation. An artist can’t do their best work without all their tools in premium condition, you feel me? But I do have to insist you pick out _one_ of these three prizes. I’m not a family man.”

“Patch,” Chuck says fervently. “PLEASE.”

“An _excellent_ choice,” the Duke says, as if he were a snobby waiter or something, and the items in his hand all disappear except for a little white square. “Gimme your wrist, babydoll, let’s fix you up.”

Chuck shivers, swallows hard, sticks out his arm. The Duke flicks some kind of backing off the square and sticks it to the inside of his wrist, and Chuck has to fight down a sudden fearful shudder. He remembers that Kane Co. fearless patch a lot more sharply than he’d like to, some days, the rush of it, the _promise_. But the only rush he’s feeling now is adrenaline, hot and sticky, and the relentless urgent pulse between his legs.

The Duke taps the patch with his forefinger, once, twice: it gives a little _blip!_ and fades from pure white to the same peach-tan of Chuck’s skin. He can hardly see it, except for how the texture’s different, a little more plastic.

“Alright, sweetheart, you’re good to rock and roll all night,” the Duke says. “And for the rest of the week, too. Let’s see how much of that time we can fill in, huh?”

He uses his grip on Chuck’s wrist to pull him in, close enough that he can get his mouth on Chuck’s neck again, which, Chuck has no more problems with, at _all_. The Duke bites him again, right over his earlier claim-mark, digging his teeth in hard and then easing off, licking up and down his throat, biting again. Chuck slumps back against the far door and moans for him, moans and then _screams,_ getting as shamelessly, helplessly noisy as he’s ever been fearing for his life in a fight or a car or a fight in a car. But this is better than even flying along in Mutt, _so much_ better, getting taken to pieces by hormones and a clever, powerful partner, instead of just fear and speed and danger. He’s safe here, folding underneath the Duke’s attention, covered up by his body, cushioned against this fancy suede seat. It feels _amazing._

“Aw, yeah, let it all out, baby, scream for me,” the Duke murmurs, and Chuck eagerly complies because the Duke’s petting his chest, now, then down his stomach. Chuck screams in relief when the Duke touches his dick again, lets it slide back and forth against his loose fist, the soft warm leather of his glove, _god_ , he’s still wearing those gloves, it’s like he _knows_ how hot it is. He has to know, why wouldn’t he. _Fuck_ \--Chuck shudders, gasps for breath, tries not to come again this quickly, like the ridiculously eager, inexperienced first-heat virgin he is, but fuck, it’s a struggle.

“Need a little more?” the Duke asks solicitously. He rubs his thumb over the head of Chuck’s dick, a maddeningly delicate little circle, and Chuck can feel the scratch of those ridiculous knuckle studs against his inner thigh. When he looks down the length of their bodies it’s just, it’s an insane sight, black leather and long fingers against his flushed dick, his pale trembling thighs, and all of it glistening obscenely with Chuck’s dripping slick.

“Fuck me,” Chuck whines. “ _Fuck_ me! C’mon! What the--the--hhnn, _aah_ , what the _fuck_ , why, whya _aaAAAh,_ aah, aren’t, why’re--fuck aah god, please!”

“Well!” the Duke says. “I _do_ take requests. If I’m asked nice enough.”

Chuck has no idea how nearly incoherent begging wasn’t nice enough. He whines again, wordless, and butts his head up against the Duke’s jaw.

“ _Please_ ,” he manages again. He kisses the Duke’s throat, soft and breathless little presses, no teeth. Begging, his hips rolling, his hands fluttering around useless. “ _Please, please, please!”_

“Oh yeah, that’s nice. That’s very nice, baby, keep it going.”

Chuck does, eagerly, and the Duke lets his dick go but only to touch his own, painting his longer-- _much_ longer, kind of terrifyingly longer--length with Chuck’s own slick. It had gotten smaller and softer after Chuck finished using his mouth on it, but it’s plenty ready, now, and kind of looms up between them like a warhead. Chuck would have second thoughts about whether or not he’s gonna damage himself on it if he could actually manage to _care_ about getting damaged, right now. But instead he feels like he’d let the Duke tear him apart and then thank him for it afterwards.

God, what if the Duke hadn’t made this offer, taken pity on him, what if he’d been left to feel like this back at the Hideout? Chuck whimpers and rolls his hips forward, catching the tip of the Duke’s dick against his slit, feeling it slide up along the underside of his shaft. The Duke practically _purrs_.

“Go for it,” he says. “You can steer for a l’il while, baby, you got that beginner’s luck, don’t you-- _ooh_ , that’s good, that’s real good.”

Chuck’s managed to line them up enough that the tip of the Duke’s dick has sunk into his slit, properly, and another roll of his hips sinks his length in an inch or two. It doesn’t hurt at all, to his surprise, just feels like the sweet, rewarding pressure of fingers. Chuck’s so dripping-wet that he could probably fit anything up there, an actual warhead, a whole fucking limo. He lets his head rest back against the door again, hoping the Duke will get the idea and bite him more while he works on taking his dick, and the Duke laughs low in his throat as he complies.

“Such a smart kid,” he murmurs, in between pressing his claim into Chuck’s skin, his dick into Chuck’s entrance. “High class quality all over, aren’tcha, sweet thing, good at anythin’ you set your mind to right out the starting gate.”

“Nnh, stop,” Chuck says, fumbling up to grab the Duke’s hair.  “M’not, I’m. Nnnhahaha, _fuck_ , please--”

“I don’t ride anything but the best, darlin’, you know that,” the Duke says, and Chuck chokes on a protest as the Duke’s dick settles all the way in, rubs against something extra-sweet, something that sends a giddy thrill of pleasure all through him. He can feel the Duke’s knot pressing at his entrance, already swelling--the Duke gives a sharp little thrust, and Chuck screams, short and startled, as it’s shoved inside him, stretching him wide enough to _ache--_ then his entrance clamps down on the far side, locking them together.

“Oh, oh, oh wow, oh,” Chuck whimpers, fisting his fingers in bleach-blond hair. “Ohh, wow.”

“Mmmm,” the Duke hums. He wiggles a little, testing the lock, and huffs a quiet laugh against Chuck’s neck when it makes Chuck scream and grab him tightly.

Bit by bit, Chuck relaxes, as the knot inside him swells, as every small motion of either of their bodies sends pulses of warm satisfaction all through him. The constant pounding urgency that’s been driving him all day--maybe for more than a day--the restless unhappy need, is unraveling, is fading away. This is what he wanted, and he’s got it now. A tight, satisfying ache, a building warmth deep inside him, a heavy, strong body arched over him, licking his throat, murmuring soft aimless endearments. Chuck gives a final sigh and goes limp against the seat, lets his head loll back. He drifts for awhile.

He comes back to himself when the Duke starts shifting around above him, stroking his chest and stomach and tugging at their lock. Chuck makes a complaining noise. He likes it here.

“Don’t tell me you’re _done_ , baby,” the Duke says, sounding strained and breathless. He rolls his hips sharp enough for his knot to tug at Chuck’s entrance. It sends a weird ripple of alarm through him, like vertigo, a sudden prickling consciousness of danger, wrongness. Chuck clenches down hard, keeping the Duke where he is.

“ _Nnh!_ ” he goes, and the Duke just laughs, gives him another of those weird jolts. Chuck squirms around, trying to get ahold of the Duke with his legs, but he’s still got his pants around his thighs and with the alpha straddling him, he’s fairly well pinned. He uses his hands, instead, grips the Duke’s thin hips and _grinds_ him down against him, keeping him right where Chuck wants him.

“ _Mmm-mm!_ Aren’t you eager like this?” the Duke asks, grinning, evidently pleased. “Yeah, that’s it, lemme know how much you want it, lemme hear you!” He keeps rocking back and forth, no matter how tightly Chuck clings to him or how plaintively Chuck whines, _teasing_ him with that weird visceral threat, that he might pull out too early, that he might _leave_ , leave Chuck to the mercy of an unfulfilled heat.   

 _I could take him_ , Chuck remembers. The Duke’s thinner than him, and older, athletic only for show, not combat. Chuck pulls in as many deep, steadying breaths as he can, trying to scrape a little bit of his brain together, trying to think about angles, leverage, counterweight.

“Yeah, just like that, babydoll,” the Duke purrs, feeling Chuck’s hands shift on him, hold on even more tightly. Then he goes “ _Whoah! Whoah, HEY--_ ” as Chuck lunges upwards, grabs both the Duke’s thin, nearly _delicate_ wrists in one hand and pins him with his back flat to the seat. He strips his stupid, constricting jeans off as fast as he can while the Duke thrashes, gritting his teeth as all the movement and outraged wriggling yanks and pulls at their knot, sets his heart pounding _don’t don’t DON’T_ , but then he’s straddling the Duke’s hips in the next minute, sinking down with all his weight. Hand on the Duke’s wrists. Hand planted on his chest.

“ _There_ ,” he gasps. “Ahhh _haha, yeah_. There.”

“Oh,” the Duke says faintly. “I, uh. Alright, then! Ride me hard ‘n put me away wet, huh?”

Chuck moans an enthusiastic affirmative and grinds down again: with gravity on his side, the slight back-and-forth motion is no longer a warning jolt, but something sweeter, better, exciting. _Mine, mine, this is mine_ , he thinks. The Duke gasps underneath him, tries to get his hands free.

“Lemme go--”

“No!”

“Let my _hands go_.”

“ _No_.”

“I’ll make it worth your while, baby, you know I’m good for it.”

Chuck glares at him suspiciously, still grinding steadily, way too much of his higher functioning offline and not coming back when he gropes for it. The Duke grins up at him, that smarmy ingratiating smile he pulls out when he wants to make a deal, but his deals are good, more often than not, the guy knows how to work a compromise.

Chuck lets him free. The Duke immediately grabs Chuck’s dick, and Chuck yelps, startled, then moans appreciatively as another kind of pleasure starts up alongside the heavy sweetness building inside him, a fast sharp counterpoint. The Duke pumps his dick fast and hard, thumb circling at the sensitive dripping head, fingers squeezing his shaft, each stroke echoing through the stretched-taut walls of Chuck’s slit, emphasizing how tightly clenched the knot is inside him, how secure and full he is. In a matter of minutes, Chuck’s driven to an edge of sensation he’d almost managed to forget about, then shoved over it, screaming, spattering his slick across the Duke’s lean stomach.

Afterwards, they’re still tied together, and the Duke’s tracing aimless, ticklish little wet patterns up along Chuck’s trembling sides. He’s still got those fucking gloves on, and it’s still hot, and Chuck is probably gonna remember every minute of today forever.

“Hey, baby boy, you wanna know how many times you can come before I’m done with you?” the Duke grins.

 _“Yes_ ,” Chuck breathes.

Yeah, the Duke makes _damn_ good on some of his deals.

 

*

 

Chuck doesn’t know how many times he comes: he loses track. It’s a lot. It’s enough. By the time the Duke slips free from him he’s pretty much insensate, just a breathless, trembling body. Nothing but unstrung muscles and dripping skin and a deep, pulsing ache between his legs, burnt-out satisfied.

“You wanna sleep it off back at my place, sweet thing?” the Duke murmurs, stroking his sweat-damp hair. Chuck yawns, licks idly at the fingers when they come close enough, tastes slick and salt and musk. Something twinges inside him, but gently. He shakes his head.

“Nnnh,“ he says.

“Yeah, let’s go back to my mansion,” the Duke says. “I’ll tuck you up in my bed all nice and cozy and no one will bother you long’s you like. Then all week I’ll fuck you in every limo I got, how about that? Introduce you to all my lovely ladies, hear you scream _so nice_ in each and every one...” He’s still petting Chuck’s hair and Chuck likes it, he really does, but he doesn’t much care for any of the rest of it. He’s tired, dizzy-tired, worn out like he can’t ever remember being before, but he can’t sleep here, or in the Duke’s bed. The Duke’s rich, powerful, _really_ great at sex... but he’s not quite _safe_ , not the right kind of safe, to sleep with.

Chuck wants to sleep in his own space, in his own ride. His own bed.

“Home,” Chuck mumbles. “I wanna. Mmm. _Home_.”

“My casa is your casa, compadre,” the Duke says coaxingly. “Just you stick with me, babe, I can do you so much better than that scruffy punk Chilton--”

“ _Mike_ ,” Chuck says. “I want. Mike. Home.”

“ _No_ ,” the Duke says, indignant now. “Come on, babe!”

Chuck shakes his head stubbornly. “Mike,” he says firmly, and points vaguely out the limo window. “Gimme. Um. Bring....Mmmmn. Me. Home.”

The Duke sighs, long and loud and unhappy, and sits up. “Well, you heard him,” he says to someone, and the limo they’re in sways just a little as it’s steered into some kind of turn. “Back to being a diamond in a dungheap. Chilton doesn’t even know _what_ he’s got in you, does he?”

Chuck snorts a vague laugh. Of course Mike does. Mike’s his friend, his best friend, who believes in Chuck no matter what, who gets Chuck out of any trouble they might get in. Who makes it worth getting into trouble. Who Chuck wants to sleep with more than anything, put his head down on that black leather jacket and just drift away, familiar arms wrapped tight around him.

Instead he’s here in the Duke’s limo, tiredly wiping slick and come and sweat from his tender, overused flesh with one of the Duke’s silly white handkerchiefs, shuffling himself clumsily back into his jeans. Tugging his shirt collar to see if it’ll cover the vivid burgundy bruise of the Duke’s claim-mark and giving up with another jaw-cracking yawn. His head feels fuzzy with exhaustion, on the verge of disintegrating entirely. He feels like he could just... dissolve, he’s so done. But if he sleeps here he’ll wake up in the Duke’s mansion and that’s just... that doesn’t feel right, that’s not his place. That’s not his life.

He’ll just spend a lot of next week in the shower, he figures. Rig up some... tools, or whatever. He knows how to give his body what it wants, now. He’ll get through this. He’ll be fine. He just wants to be _home_.

Finally the limo rolls to a stop and the Duke gives him a final, pouty look.

“Are you _sure_?” he asks plaintively. “I could offer you so _much_ , babe, just you go and ask me for it!”

“Nn,” Chuck goes, not at all interested in any more of the Duke’s ridiculous theatrics. He gives the Duke a pat on the shoulder, trying to convey _this was nice, thanks_ , then pushes past the alpha and opens the door.

He staggers when his feet hit the ground, his knees buckling, and has to clutch hastily at the doorframe. The Duke doesn’t reach out to help him: he’s sitting stiffly in the center of the bench seat, now, and looks away with elaborate unconcern when Chuck looks to him, like the minute Chuck’s feet hit the ground he was already gone.

Well, whatever. Chuck knew fucking the guy wasn’t gonna make them friends, like, at all. It’s why he wants to get out of here. He takes a deep breath, steels his spine, forces his knees to listen up, and pushes away from the limo.

Mike is there, immediately.

“Are you alright?” he asks, pulling one of Chuck’s arms over his shoulders. Chuck takes a deep, appreciative breath of his smell, the familiar tang of motor oil and Mutt and _Mike_ , and lets his cheek rest against Mike’s temple. His best friend also smells like stress and anger, which is a real shame. He worries too much about all the wrong stuff.  

“‘M fine,” he assures Mike. “‘M good, it, mm... Wassall good.” He rubs his face against Mike’s hair, feeling a really ridiculous amount of affection, and leans on him. Mike lets out a shaky breath and holds him tightly, like he thinks Chuck might fall, as he guides Chuck across the yard to Mutt.

“I was goin’ crazy, dude,” Mike says. “All his guards were keepin’ me pinned and I didn’t know what he was _doin’_ to you--”

“Sex,” Chuck says. “‘N a lotta it. S’good.”

Mike laughs, high and kind of unhappy. They’re almost at Mutt now.  

“No, really,” Chuck says. “Y’should. Mmmh. Try it...” he’s fading out, now, he can feel sleep coming up on him in a wave. He fumbles clumsily with Mutt’s door, then lets Mike open it and tip him into his seat. Mike also puts Chuck’s safety harness on for him, adjusting all the straps with careful, weirdly shaky hands.

“Yeah, okay, cool,” Mike says tightly. “Great, that’s awesome, that’s just _super freakin’ fantastic_. And who should I try it with, Chuck, huh?”

“I dunno,” Chuck yawns again, lets his head rest back against the seat. “Whoever. Mm. Wants to...” Fuck, it’s comfortable here, it smells right, feels right. Mike’s there. “But later. I wanna go _home_ , Mikey.”

Mike takes a sharp breath, and then pets Chuck’s hair, just once. It feels a lot better than when the Duke did it. Chuck likes him _so much better_ than the Duke. He catches Mike’s wrist.

“Or, or, me,” he says. Yawns once more. “But tomorrow.”

“What?” Mike says. “I--Chuck, _what_ , really?”

“Yeah, it’s.... Tomorrow, I want. You. If you wanna try it. Sex.” Chuck manages to open his eyes, squints blearily at Mike. “‘S _really_ good, Mikey, I promise, ‘s great. Y’don’t haveta but I know how, now...”

“No, I--that’s not the--that wasn’t the part I had any doubts about, it’s just, Chuck, you wanna--you want to have sex with _me_?”

“Yeah,” Chuck says, eyes closing again. “Duh. Since like... _forever_. But _t’morrow_ , Mikey, _please._ ”

“Okay,” Mike says, then laughs, this time bright and startled and joyous. “Okay, wow! You’re on, man. Tomorrow!”

Chuck finds himself laughing along, happy his best friend is happy, happy about having sex tomorrow, and maybe even for the rest of his heat if he’s lucky. He was worried about that earlier, scared to death that if he ever asked Mike it’d ruin everything somehow. But he’s run out of fear, for a little while, and right now it feels like sex is just sex: it’s great, he had a great time, and he’s gonna show Mike how great it is and they’ll do it a lot and everything’s gonna be just fine.

Chuck snuggles down in the cozy, familiar nest of his shotgun seat as time starts to come apart on him, enjoying every part of it, from the extra padding to the firm grip of the safety harness to the soft flickering access lights of his weapons systems. Mutt rumbles to life, loud and rattletrap, dangerous and fun and _theirs,_ part of the life he built for himself with Mike, better than any limo could ever be. He falls asleep still smiling.

Mike takes him home.

**Author's Note:**

>  _You keep on saying you'll be mine for a while_  
>  _You're lookin' fancy and I like your style_  
>  _You drive us wild, we'll drive you crazy_  
>  _You show us everything you've got_  
>  _Baby, baby, that's quite a lot..._  
>  \--Kiss, "Rock 'n Roll All Nite"


End file.
